Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Veritable Stud flashes on the screen, and I smile, relieved Crash is calling. I swipe to answer, then peer around to see which of these guys is on his phone.
Not a one.
With a foreboding feeling, I say, “Hey, Crash. Are you almost here?”
“Yeah, about that…” His apologetic tone is not a good sign. “I totally messed up the days. My bad.”
No kidding, it’s your bad. But this is the other reason I wanted to meet him early.
“It’s okay,” I say. It’s not, but I can make this work. “When do you think you’ll be here?”
There’s a mix of apology and excitement in his tone. “Yeah, I’m in line for The Undead Infected Brainmeat Part Six, and if I leave, I’ll lose my place.”
Classic. Men are such clown cars of excuses. You never know which excuse is coming, but they never fail to surprise you with a new one popping up.
“But this is the date you agreed to,” I point out diplomatically, clinging to faint hope. “We were depending on you.”
Katrina deserves to feel beautiful today, dammit.
I’ve been working my butt off building my photography business—from boudoir to fashion and even to sports—since I graduated from college last year. I just returned to San Francisco a few months ago, and this shoot is a big chance for me to build my own boudoir business. I pride myself on making my clients feel like the beautiful, empowered goddesses they are.
GODDESSES DO NOT GET STOOD UP FOR ZOMBIE GAMES!
“Where are you in line?” I ask. “I could push the shoot to later today.”
“Yeah, about that…” But he doesn’t mean yeah. He means nah. “After I get it, I’m gonna play it.”
Crash is a trainwreck. “Fine,” I say before hanging up. “Have fun with that.”
I don’t have time for I can’t believe this is happening. I need a backup plan.
I open my contacts list for online agencies that might deliver in a hurry, then realize I’ve reached the counter. There, I’m greeted by none other than Birdie LaShay, the owner of High Kick Coffee, rocking a pink feather boa like she’s still on stage.
“What’s wrong, sweetie? Did someone disappoint you?”
“Is it that obvious?” I sigh.
She nods. “You have that look. The ‘he’s not showing up’ look.” She lowers her voice. “App guy? Those apps are trouble.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I only wish it were a date letting me down.”
She arches a brow, humming. “So, you’re single?”
I nod. “Very, very single.”
Her lips twitch into a smile before she schools her expression. “Is it your father? Sometimes they let you down too.”
But my dad wouldn’t. “It’s work. Crash ditched me for virtual zombies.” I glance at the café clock. “I have a boudoir shoot and an hour and a half to find a replacement hunk.”
Her smile brightens. “Don’t worry, darling. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare because I’ve already solved your problem. Just like that.” She snaps her fingers and tosses her boa over her shoulder with dramatic flair.
“Do you have a hot barista stashed behind the counter?” I ask.
She leans in conspiratorially to whisper, “Even better. My grandson—handsome as they come—has a rest day today.”
“A rest day from what?”
Her eyes dart sideways for a second, and she talks faster. “Cooking. It’s very intense. Have you seen that show The Cub? The one about the chef in Seattle? He looks like that. Inked too.”
Okay, okay. I’m officially interested. I’ve only gotten to know Birdie a little over the last few weeks, and I had no idea what her grandson did. But a chef could work for my photographic needs. A good chef is used to the spotlight. A good chef has posed for a few pics. A good chef also knows how to focus his attention elsewhere—on the food. “Is he a good chef?”
“Oh, yes. And he looks just like the guy from that show,” she adds with a proud grin. “But with darker hair. Dark eyes. Will that work for your photos?”
Yes, chef. I know the popular show she means. “If he’s even close, I’ll be in your debt.”
Her grin widens. “Trust me, honey. I know exactly what I’m doing here.”
As she whips out her phone, something tugs at my brain. A connection. I turn my gaze to the doorway, where the fabulously dressed mannequin welcomes customers. The coffee-loving guy from the other day did say he was helping his grandmother, but that doesn’t mean he’s the same guy. Does it?
But I dismiss the thought and the little burst of excitement that comes with it too, focusing instead on Birdie. She’s a lifesaver and her fingers fly faster than a teenager’s across the screen before she sets it down. “I texted him. Now, give me your digits,” she says, trying to sound trendy, and it’s adorable.
I comply, happily handing over my number. She beckons me to hand over the to-go cup I always carry. “Now, let me get you your green tea, sweetie pie. You’re going to need your energy for this photo shoot. I know it’s going to be amazing.”